


velocity

by whatsarasays



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Insomnia, Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsarasays/pseuds/whatsarasays
Summary: War inverted the order of knowing.  Flipped it on its head and left all parties confused.'Don’t crash.'(Or, Jill and Carlos have a late-night conversation about the outbreak.)
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84





	velocity

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a whim. This doesn't take place in the same universe as _[absolute bearing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829247)_ , and is a more serious take on things.
> 
> Forewarning: This is an impulsive story, one I did not submit to [lordbhreanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna)'s usual scrutiny. So enjoy it in all its unbeta'ed glory.

Awakened by the distant murmur of thunder, Jill stirred from her first dreamless sleep in days. They were an ever-revolving slide deck, her nightmares. Everything from Carlos unmoving on a helipad to descending into the half-dead creature she feared herself to be. Her more recent ones had been featuring an over-bright explosion. And then she remembered that one was real.

As she blearily rolled over in the motel bed, she realized the other side was empty. Her arm shot out to check in case her eyes were deceiving her, but all she felt was cold sheet. In a flurry of covers, she leapt from the bed and snatched her pistol from the side table before she heard a cautious voice call her name.

Her barrel swung to the sound. Adjusting to the darkness, she saw Carlos sitting at the small table in front of the room’s large window, palms out, indicating everything was fine. She dropped her aim. Exhaled—long and slow. Inhaled. Then disarmed her gun. After returning it to the bedside table, she stepped to the center of the room, “Sorry, I didn’t know where you were.”

“Don’t worry about it. Seeing that quickdraw of yours was worth it, anyway,” his voice was ragged from the late hour. He ticked his head toward the sparkling rain-dotted window, “Wanna join me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It had been a week since she barreled into him full force. And she seemed to be stuck on a cyclical collision course because every time she thought herself recovered enough to pull away and say, ‘ _Listen, Carlos, you’re great. But this is really going fast. Maybe we should think about pumping the breaks,’_ she’d veer and plummet right back.

But he continued to catch her in the same way he caught her from a comedown—caressing until the tension of impact unwound. Not that she didn’t just bowl him over at times. There were just as many moments where she had him pinned between her thighs in one way or another. But he remained constant and dedicated beneath her. More than willing to get swept into her maelstrom.

It was disorienting.

Because in many ways, she knew so little about him. It hit her on the daily, each time she gathered some tidbit of information—like how caffeine didn’t affect him so he could sleep through three cups of coffee or that he spoke four languages or that he whistled while doing tedious tasks. Things she should have learned long before discovering how he reacted to gunshots or her touch.

But war inverted the order of knowing. Flipped it on its head and left all parties confused.

Intimacy before the basics was not her norm. She was a slow-goer when it came to relationships and people in general. It took Chris who knows how many rounds of plopping next to her desk with his guitar and serenading her with silly rhymes to get her to finally join the rest of STARS for post-work drinks. Getting to know her teammates had been a gradual unfolding over rounds of cards and early morning paperwork.

But Carlos?

Jill bit the inside of her cheek.

He was her partner, yes. They had established that much. But it was more than just partners-with-benefits. For all of his outrageous flirting and swagger, there was something about the way he sang her praises, even blushed occasionally, that told her, no, this recurring encounter was tangled and difficult to pull back from. It was ensnarled with triggers and survival and long looks out trains. But, of course, she only had to look at her own feelings to tell that much.

It concerned her, their acceleration. Especially since they were making their way to the Mexican border, hoping to scrub themselves up some new identities and figure out how to act on their mutual hate of a certain pharmaceutical company.

Jill dipped down to the room’s mini-fridge and retrieved two lagers. She passed one to Carlos, who cracked it as he scooted out the empty chair across from him with his foot, inviting her to sit.

Settling, she snapped open her beer, “You’re up late.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Happens sometimes,” he took a sip before slumping back and crossing his arms, “I’m lucky, though. I know some guys who went crazy from the insomnia.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” she huffed across the brim of her drink. She knew he understood. He was there every time she shot awake, even after the pills.

They had gotten her off-market sedatives since her meds were gone along with the rest of Raccoon City, and filling a prescription meant proving she was alive. She remembered Carlos in the alley, casual with hands his in pockets, talking to the dealers as if he was one—knew the lingo and how to act. She didn’t have to guess too hard about it.

“T used to call those guys ‘nightwalkers.’ Wasn’t meant to be funny then, but it definitely isn’t now.”

“Had you’d known him long? Tyrell?”

“Maybe a few months. But I liked him. Most of the UBCS guys were dickheads. Not him, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Jill said quietly, “About Mikhail, too, and the rest of your platoon.”

“Thanks,” he replied, “At least they knew what they were getting themselves into. It’s the people who didn’t. It’s the rest of-,” his arm scooped vaguely into nothingness, “that fucking pisses me off.”

That’s what they had to describe what they had been through—no description at all. Motioning into a void was as close as it got.

Carlos took another drink, “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That city was your home, Jill.”

She went silent and had to keep her shoulders from curling with tension. It wasn’t his that question that angered her. It was the host of injustice coupled to the answer that did.

He backtracked in the wake of her non-reply, rubbing his neck, “Look, I’m sorry. If you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine.”

The wound in her chest poured. Most days, she tried to constrict the flood. Because she needed to keep going. She had to. But she had learned it would weep no matter what, her heart, so if she redirected its flow, maybe channeled it into something useful, she could make it through. She glanced out the window for a half-second, and then back to him, “It’s easier to talk about what I didn’t lose.”

“Okay.” He was open, body angled toward her, letting her know he was listening. Making space for whatever she wanted to fill it with.

“My parents are fine. Still hard to deal with, but fine. I told them I was already out of the city before the outbreak,” she took a breath before continuing, “Rebecca—STARS medic—is fine. Barry, also STARS, is concerned about me, but I told him I was safe,” her eyes met Carlos’ with a brief half-grateful, half-sardonic smile before her throat suddenly constricted, “and Chris is somewhere in Europe and won’t answer my emails. Hopefully, fucking fine.”

 _Don’t crash,_ she thought as she realized she was sitting ramrod straight in her chair.

She took a long swig of beer, wiping her chin with her wrist when she finished.

"Hey," Carlos stretched out across the table and offered her his hand. Jill stared at for a while. And then took it. He pulled, tugging her out of her seat and around the furniture until she was between his legs. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she straddled him. He balanced her at the waist as she climbed into his lap.

Once settled, he asked his trademark question, “You good?”

She didn’t even have to show signs of falter for him to ask it. It was just his check-in. She almost felt as though it should come to her over radio static, attached to other phrases, _‘What’s your position? Do you need backup? I’m here. Come in, Jill. Jill, come in. Jill, if you don’t start talking right now, I’m coming after you.’_

She nodded an affirmative, and then replied, “Sometimes.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Hell, I don’t even think that’s an option for us.”

Fingertips trailing up her legs, Carlos sat up to kiss her with a sigh, as if she were relief. His relent and reprieve. He pulled back to smile up at her. Carding her fingers through his hair, Jill pressed his head against her sternum, cradling him close. His eyes drifted closed and his arms coiled tight around her, leaving no room between them.

Partners was an adequate enough description, she thought. Though with their speed and shared trajectory, it stretched much further than its usual connotations. So, yes, partners in many complicated ways.

But each other’s seatbelts in this uncontrollable crash-landing most of all.


End file.
